Philosophical Sonnet I.

By Bill Mehlman

I.

My seeds surge up from balls of brass - oh,

I'm no falsetto, I'm pure basso -

Drawn out by you from their Sargasso

They speed through vas-deferential loops.

I love your dewy, black-fringed - oops,

That is, your eyes, like Betty Boop's.

No art can limn you, not Picasso's

Finest etchings, pastels, nor impastos,

Nor Pliestocene man down in Lascaux,

Not tones from strings nor reeds in twos.

And for the words poor bards needs use?

Best you can do, these sorry screeds, Muse?

No help for us from the nine Mnemonides;

Let's keep it simple: we'll fuck on Fridays.